(if i must be put to death,let it be) by your aristocratic little hand
by thefudge is grumpy
Summary: Mary has a weird habit of running into her sister's ex-husband. Mary/Darcy. Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Three months back I mentioned on Tumblr I had this kind of AU in mind, and here it is, in all its awkward glory. If you're a huge Lizzy/Darcy fan, hey, so am I! But I'm a multishipper and this is a dynamic I've been meaning to explore, particularly in a modern AU. So if you're not a fan of this or if this somehow violates the Lizzy/Darcy pairing for you, please don't read and please don't bite my head off in the comments. I get that this scenario can be off-putting to many, so just give it a wide berth. I mean I know some of you will still give me grief, but oh well._

_For those of you who are weird like me, welcome!_

_The title is taken from a line in The Idiot, by Elif Batuman. _

_(if you'd rather read it on ao3, you can find it there as well - user: thefudge)_

* * *

_Wish I wasn't so shy_  
_I'd like to watch, I'd like to read_  
_I'd like a part, I'd like the lead_  
_But I've got nothing to say, I've got nothing to say._

the strokes - ask me anything

* * *

**1/6**

Mary Bennet is suffocating.

The room feels like the merciless inside of an oven. The speakers drone on, their voices like pulsing heat waves which reach all the way up to her seventh row. The stark white square of slide-show in the dark reminds her of a solar eclipse. She waves the conference folder in her face, but it does not make the air any more breathable. When there is a break in the presentation (the speaker's laptop has frozen and he has to boot it up), she slips quietly, desperately down the stairs and out the door, feeling foolish and seen, but knowing she can't bear one more minute of it.

She gulps the fresh air in the foyer like Hansel and Gretel, after escaping the gingerbread house.

She rests her back against the deliciously cool wall and decides to just stand there until someone has a problem with it.

"Mary?"

_Oh, that was quick._

She opens her eyes and has to blink away the moisture in disbelief.

Will Darcy, her sister's ex-husband, is standing in front of her. For some reason.

He takes a step back, his body half in profile, expression taut. Like a slingshot. "I thought it was you."

Mary tries to school her face. She often registers shock by scowling. He must think she is displeased to see him. Not that she is very pleased either. She is - she doesn't know.

The divorce was finalized eleven months ago. She knows the exact date because her mother keeps bringing it up on the phone.

"Yes, it's me," she says, emphatically, redundantly. She swipes a lock of hair from her face and realizes there was no lock of hair, just her imagination. "Hello."

"Hi." He is possibly the only man alive who makes "hi" sound formal. Mary remembers now why she was always a little scared of him.

"Are you staying at this hotel?" he asks, gesturing behind him, as if she needs specification.

"Yes. I'm here for the conference. Librarians' conference," she tells him in a stilted voice. "I just came out of a panel."

"I see. Yes, I saw the poster."

Mary doesn't remember a poster.

"I'm staying here too," he adds. "Business in town."

"Oh, very good," she mumbles like a waiter commending the patron for the selection of wine.

"It's a pretty good hotel," she adds pathetically.

"Can't complain," he replies, and if he weren't Lizzie's ex-husband and practically "family", she might have interpreted his tone as curt, but she knows that's just his way. It's bizarre how familiar he is, while also totally foreign.

As if he realized he was too brief in his description, he adds, "I have a nice view of the city."

"Oh. My view is of the pool," she says, because when in doubt, you should imitate your conversation partner. She read it in a book. "I like it at night, especially."

Well, now that she said "at night" she has to explain _why_ . Mary feels sweat build up above her upper lip. "At night, it looks purple. Purple-ish."

Darcy is polite enough to ignore this last remark.

"Do you swim?" he asks instead.

"Oh no."

And this seems to be the end of that thread. They've exhausted all resources.

Neither is bold enough to bring up Lizzy or anything outside the minuscule world of this hotel they both share.

"Well, I should let you get back…" he trails off.

"Yes, I should also...let _you_ get back…" she mutters, stepping back against the wall.

"It was good seeing you," he says, in the same moment that she says, "See you around", and she feels perfectly mortified , because he clearly meant to draw an end to their overall interactions, whereas she inferred they might run into each other again. Mary wishes she were slightly dead. Her conflict is visible on her face, but really, _everything_ is.

Darcy lets his arms fall to the side awkwardly. "Yes, maybe I will see you at dinner time...in the...if you have dinner in the hotel restaurant."

"Oh, you don't have to. I can eat it in my room."

"Goodness, no!"

Mary winces. She wants to apologize for letting that one slip, but she barrels on, because she realizes that this is one of those conversations where it's just _no good_ . Most of her day-to-day conversations are _no good_ . "Or I can go out. I think some people in my group would like that."

Darcy shakes his head. He looks like a man who has already made up his mind. "You really don't have to put yourself out on my account. I'm - I would like - let's have dinner and talk. Catch up."

The obvious pain and discomfort elicited by the invitation forbid her from saying no.

"All right."

Darcy nods and bows slightly, waiting for her to go back into the conference room so that they can part formally.

Mary realizes the meaning of his gesture three seconds too late.

"Oh. No. I'm not going back in there. It's too hot." She fans herself. "And - and I can't listen to them talk about Karl Ove Knausgard anymore."

Darcy frowns. "Not a fan?"

Mary also frowns - a school girl asked a question by her teacher. "I like him fine, but I don't think he's meant to be admired. You read him and you sit with him quietly, and you don't need to talk about him. It takes away from his writing if you do. Some authors are like that."

She blushes a little, because she was saving this exact opinion for questions and comments at the end of the panel. She'd even rehearsed it a little. She was going to deliver it to one of the speakers. But she is almost glad now that she delivered it to him instead.

Darcy checks his watch, but it's not a rude gesture of dismissal. Rather, it looks like he's focusing intently on her words. "Yes, I suppose some authors are." A pause. He looks up. "All right, then. I will see you at dinner."

"Yes, take care."

Darcy blinks, nods, leaves.

Mary stands back against the wall. _Take care?_ She looks out of the tinted hotel windows. It's not as if he's in danger of not taking care. He always seems to take care.

Mary thumbs her phone. She's going to have to write Lizzy. She thinks about the words she's going to write.

_I ran into Darcy today and we're having dinner at the hotel. What should I talk about? Do you need me to deliver a message? Do you want me to not talk to him? Because I could do that._

In fact, Mary hopes her sister will say just that.

Because she has no idea what she's going to say at dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: thank you for your kind reviews and support! also excuse any mistakes/typos. the awkward marathon continues!_

* * *

**2/6**

Mary dashed off a text to Lizzy the minute she got back to her room, but it's now almost seven in the evening, which is when the hotel restaurant starts serving dinner, and her sister has yet to issue a reply. She has tried calling too, to no avail.

The silence could mean Lizzy is mad at her for even suggesting the idea of having dinner with Darcy, but that's not her way. Maybe it just means her sister has nothing to say to her ex-husband and thus has no opinion on the matter, but that's not her way either. Lizzy always has an opinion on things.

Mary agonizes in front of the bathroom mirror. She doesn't have to go downstairs. It's not a _crime_ to be rude. Hilariously – although it's certainly not funny to her – she is both afraid of seeing him and _not_ seeing him. She runs a hand through her lank hair, knowing she should have washed it. But she's not worried about her looks. She has no reason to try and improve them right now. No, whenever she's anxious she actually _likes_ looking at herself in the mirror. It makes her feel like she's being watched over by her primary school teacher. The doting old woman always used to say "you have to be brave in front of me".

If that means she looks like her primary school teacher, so be it.

_It won't kill me_, she thinks about the dinner. _Maybe Darcy won't show up. Yes, he probably won't._

* * *

She runs into him at the restaurant entrance. It seems that they share a habit of strict punctuality.

Darcy stands aside for her to pass, but Mary pauses and tries to offer the courtesy back to him. Darcy shakes his head. No, she must pass. Mary feels castigated.

They make their silent way to a table that is far from the conference group. Luckily, she's only acquainted with a few of the participants and doesn't have to acknowledge them by making eye contact, but some of the older women have noticed her entrance. Mary ducks her head. There's nothing shameful in dining with an ex-brother-in-law, but still.

"I didn't expect so many men," Darcy says as they settle down, his eye on the conference group across the room.

Mary blinks and looks over her shoulder. "Oh. Most of the women came with their husbands. And yes, some of the men are librarians too. We are a diverse set."

"That's comforting to know," he says, opening the menu.

Mary opens her own menu. She wonders if there are words he can say that don't sound like the opposite of what they mean.

"How – how are things with you?" She stops herself before she adds a "Sir". Anyway, the quicker they catch up, the better.

"I can't complain," he says, looking up at her. "I'm actually in the process of buying a publishing house."

Mary nods, but she doesn't quite understand. As far as she knows, Pemberley is still a textile machinery manufacturer. She doesn't remember any media outlets.

"When you say publishing house…" she trails off, "do you mean for books?"

Darcy blinks. "Why, yes."

Mary toys with the hem of the tablecloth. How is it her fault that she sounded stupid when she asked that?

Darcy seems to realize the misunderstanding. "Ah, I know it doesn't make much sense in my line of work, but it's a small publishing house that used to belong to my family almost a century ago."

Mary raises both eyebrows. "One hundred years ago? That's – that's something."

"Yes. My grandfather had to sell it. I'm trying to buy it back."

It's too much information at once. She doesn't know quite how to react. She covers her whole fist in the tablecloth.

"That's very kind of you."

Darcy frowns. "I don't know about kind. I think it's only right that it should come back to the family."

Mary sweats. "Yes, but your intentions are really nice."

He seems to doubt the veracity of her words, but his expression does lift. "Oh. I suppose. Thank you."

Not for the first time, Mary wonders what he was like as a husband. On those rare occasions when she saw him and Lizzy interact in public, Lizzy was the one who talked and teased and made him laugh. He simply stood in the background, enjoying her presence. Mary recognizes that she too likes to watch Lizzy perform. There's something both reassuring and effervescent about her. A mixture of safety and risk. It's exciting, but not alarming.

"Can you tell me more about the publishing house?" she asks, pushing the thought aside.

Darcy nods and goes into a rather detailed history of _Lambton House Inc_., which he hadn't planned on doing, but Mary doesn't interrupt him, even when he pauses for her reaction, because she likes listening. It's easier than talking.

He stops when they have to order.

They both have the salmon and asparagus with white wine.

Through mouthfuls, she tells him she is somewhat familiar with _Lambton House, Inc_. because there are some very old history books in the Hertford library that bear its trademark, back when _Lambton House_ was active in the independent publishing world.

Darcy is pleasantly surprised. His shoulders relax and he leans forward. "Really?"

"I could dig them up for you, if you like."

"I would. We should establish a meeting," he says, eyes already glazed, mentally checking off his schedule.

Mary puts down her fork. Hertford is neutral territory. It's cozy and old-fashioned. Lizzy is safely away in London. But still, she really ought to check with her sister.

"Do you like working there?" he suddenly asks. "At the library?"

Mary stares at him. She's never been asked if she liked working at the library before.

"Yes, a lot. I like books. And I like that it's quiet and peaceful."

"Yes, I know you like books," he says, studying his glass of wine. "You were reading at the wedding reception too."

Mary chokes on her half-swallowed wine. She covers her mouth with a napkin and coughs.

_Shit_, she thinks rather crudely. It had never crossed her mind that he might've _seen_ that. Wasn't he busy getting married? Oh God, was he offended? Is he _still_ offended?

"Was I? I…don't remember," she mumbles guiltily.

His mouth almost twitches. "I remember the title. _Nausea_. Written in large block letters. Hard not to notice."

"Sartre," she blurts out.

He nods.

Mary wonders how _she_ would have felt if someone had been reading _Nausea, _of all books, at her wedding. Probably crummy.

"I'm sorry. That was a bad choice on my part."

And this time, the twitch turns into a small smile. Darcy smiles. "All things considered, your book choice was the least of my problems."

Mary smiles back sheepishly. They're getting dangerously close to the Mariana Trench of his failed marriage. She has to steer away. "How is Georgiana doing?"

The topic is welcome. Georgiana is studying interior design at the Royal College of Art and her brother is very proud.

"You should talk to her yourself," he says. "I recall you two being rather close."

_Rather close_ is a non-specific parameter, but not entirely wrong. Mary and Georgiana _had_ been almost friends once, but the divorce had made it harder to talk. And infinitely more awkward. Georgiana was just as prone to shutting up as Mary, so that explained their dry spell. But Mary makes a mental note to send her an email sooner rather than later.

Telepathically, her phone pings, and she wonders if it's Georgiana.

It's Lizzy. Finally replying.

_You can decide for yourself, Mar. I'm sure you'll make the right choice. Don't tell me what you do, either way. I don't want to hear about him right now. XO_

Mary bites her lip until the old scabs open up.

_I'm sure you'll make the right choice._

"Everything all right?" Darcy asks, staring at her phone.

Mary quickly puts it aside, wiping the sweat off her palm. "Yes. Do you want my wine?"

One side-effect of her being a walking ball of anxiety is that, weirdly enough, sometimes she can say some really bold stuff without intending to. But her glass of wine is half full and she knows she can't drink more and she feels really guilty about sitting here, right now, and _yes_.

Darcy frowns. "Why would I…?"

"Well, I can't drink any more of it. And it would be a waste to throw it away," she continues, thinking about Lizzy. About wiping away all evidence. "I can just pour it in your glass."

Darcy surveys her for a moment. He can see she's agitated. He shrugs. "All right."

He holds his glass up as Mary tips her wine into it. She tries to be careful.

As she pours, she realizes how overly familiar the gesture is. Sure, you share drinks with family, but they're not family anymore. And is this really hygienic? She watches the amber wine cascade into his glass and thinks about swapping germs. How awful. He shouldn't drink it.

He takes back his glass.

"You don't have to drink it," she says quietly.

"I really don't mind."

The rest of the dinner is spent going over what they already talked about. Darcy drinks the wine. Mary tries to focus. At one point, they simply subside into silence and it's rather more comfortable.

He insists on paying, of course, because the conference fee only includes free breakfast, and she makes a show of refusing him, but then lets him take care of it, because she should've probably never _had_ this dinner, according to her sister, so what's one more mistake?

They walk out of the restaurant together.

Mary realizes they're going to walk to the elevator together too. She mumbles an excuse.

"I'm going out for a walk. Exercise the old bones."

Mary winces. _Exercise the old bones_ is one of those phrases you only use if you want people to virulently hate you.

Darcy seems like he's about to say something, but changes his mind. He wishes her a good night. She wishes him a good night too.

She turns to walk out of the hotel and wander the streets for half an hour, but she hears him call her name.

He needs her phone number and email to set a meeting in Hertford.

Mary feels oddly defensive. Would Lizzy want this?

"Georgiana has both," she says.

Darcy is patient. "Better to get it from the source."

Mary spells them out to him and the atmosphere is weirdly hostile.

He nods, wishes her a _crisp_ good night again and walks away first.

When she looks back, the elevator doors are sawing him in half. He's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: back with my awkward beans! hope you're staying safe! and thank you for the support!_

* * *

**3/6 (but probably 8?)**

"All right, which one do you think is better?"

Mary stares at the screen with perfect blankness. She brings the phone closer to her face and narrows her eyes, in an effort to detect variation.

"Err, they look like…two roughly identical blocks of wood?"

"Ha! See, that's an easy mistake to make for non-connoisseurs, but the block on the left is real teak and the block on the right is fake teak. Notice the long grains and plain sewing on the left block."

Mary hums and hems politely, turning the phone upside down, trying to follow the long grains.

"So this is what you learn in Interior Design?"

"Among other things, but furniture is a big deal," Georgiana says in a tone that verges on the sacrosanct. Her lovely face caves in a little. "Oh, but I'm boring you stiff, aren't I?"

Mary quickly shakes her head. "Not at all. I love learning about wood."

Georgiana titters. "It's been so long since we talked, I forgot how funny you can be."

Mary blushes and smiles uneasily. The truth is, she hardly ever plans on saying anything funny. It just comes out that way. But she doesn't mind it when Georgiana points it out, because Georgiana is sweet enough to think Mary is funny on purpose.

"We should've done this sooner. I'm sorry we didn't catch up earlier," Georgiana says, biting the inside of her cheek. "I really wanted to write you, but…I wasn't sure how things were on your end."

Mary nods. They're careful not to name the divorce. "I know what you mean. I wasn't sure about your end either. I'm glad we can finally put…all of that behind us."

Georgiana smiles. "We should meet in person. My brother shouldn't be the only one who gets to see you."

Mary tries not to grimace. Naturally, Darcy told her about their dinner. It must have been an amusing story. And yet Mary herself still hasn't found the courage to tell Lizzy about it. She knows she's being silly. It's really not a big a deal, is it? But she can't stand disappointing her big sister, and she knows Lizzy _would_ mind, judging from the text she got from her during that unfortunate dinner.

"Tell him I'm sorry for being poor company," Mary says, absent-mindedly.

"Are you joking? _He's_ the perpetual grump! You were lovely, I'm sure," Georgiana protests loyally. "In fact, he did say he was glad not to eat alone for one night."

Mary snorts. That's a high compliment coming from Darcy, she supposes. But it does make her wonder if he's really that lonely. Well, it's none of her business.

Georgiana pulls her back from her thoughts. "Okay, I have a few more designs to show you. Ready to move on to crown moldings?"

Mary nods, eager to put the subject of Darcy behind her.

* * *

But in fact, it's difficult to ignore the subject when she receives a rather solemn email from him the following week.

_Dear Mary,_

_I apologize for not having written sooner. As I recall, we were supposed to establish a meeting regarding the Lambton collection. I am passing through Hertford next Wednesday and I was wondering if that would be a convenient time to take a look at the Hertford library inventory._

_Looking forward to hearing from you soon,_

_William Darcy_

_P.S. Georgiana is delighted that you are speaking again._

Mary taps her cheek as she goes over the scant sentences once more. Very polite and succinct, with a personal touch at the end. It must be a chore to him to try to sound "friendly". She should know; she often runs into trouble when she writes to the readers of Hertford Library.

But how to get out of this obligation? He's taken it for granted that they _are_ meeting. Her only job is to confirm the date. It's _maddening_, yet he is being perfectly amiable, and she can't go back on a promise. It would be too socially burdensome. _Ugh_.

She writes him back, uncertain of what tone to adopt or how formal she should be with her ex-brother-in-law. Much like him, she's not very good at this.

_Dear Mr. Darcy,_

_I would be happy to meet on Wednesday at your convenience. Let me know the exact time so I may clear my schedule._

_Yours,_

_Mary Bennet_

When he doesn't write back for two days she almost hopes that he's changed his mind. It slipped her mind entirely that she gave him her phone number, so she is quite startled when she receives a text message instead.

_Hello, Mary. Would 11 AM be all right for you on Wednesday? W.D._

Mary experiences a small degree of whiplash. To go from painfully worded emails to casual texting is strange.

She spends a good ten minutes coming up with a reply.

_Hello. Yes, 11 would be fine!_

Mary deletes the exclamation point, then puts it back, then deletes it, then puts it back again. Annoyed with herself, she hits send. And instantly regrets it. She sounds way too enthusiastic.

His reply is prompt.

_Great. Shall I meet you in front of the library building?_

Mary can't remember the last time she saw the word "shall" in a text message. Probably never.

_Yes, meet you in front at 11._

_That's settled then, thank you._

Should she thank him back? No, that would be stupid. But replying with a "see you there!" would be equally stupid. Perhaps she's fussing too much, but Darcy makes her feel as if she were at a young ladies' boarding school and she's just spilt tea on the new pinafore.

She's about to put the phone aside – the safest answer is _no_ answer – when another text message pings on her screen.

_And please don't call me Mr. Darcy._

Mary blinks.

She waits, but he doesn't tell her _what_ she should call him instead.

* * *

Her stomach is in knots. The thick, nautical kind. She has not been this nervous since her university interviews. Mary sees him walking up the paved incline to the entrance. His expression is set, but absent. The suit he's wearing makes him look like a government official who is going to fine her entire department for improper indexing.

"I hope I'm not late," he says gruffly as he comes up to her, wind ruffling his hair.

Mary squints. "Oh, no, I'm early."

"Shall we…"

"Yes, let's go in."

She leads him past the front desks, waving furtive hellos to her coworkers who do not mind _her_, but are more interested in the tall, stern-faced gentleman following her.

Mary tries to see her workplace through his eyes. The inside looks a lot less impressive than the outside. Everything has been modernized and made to look clean and scholastic rather than fusty and old-age. The library belongs to the young now, and she's glad about that, but she does miss the timeworn veneer. Luckily, today she's taking Darcy down to the basement, to what used to be the old section.

They pause as a group of school children is corralled into one of the reading rooms by a harried form teacher.

Darcy leans forward slightly. "Busy day?"

Mary looks at him. "No. Those are just children."

Darcy eyebrows knit and the corner of his mouth twitches. "I gathered."

"Oh, I mean, it's a _normal_ day. There are always children running about," she adds, tugging at the collar of her blouse and sweater combo.

A young woman dashes past to hand Mary the pass she needs for the basement and winks at her. Mary's stomach sinks a little. That's Moira who works in the young adults section. She's going to be _curious. _She'll want details. And how is she going to explain Darcy to her? Somehow, the truth is weirder than whatever Moira's thinking.

Mary leads him down a narrow corridor, past the newspaper section, past a few sliding-door offices, past the break room, then down a short flight of stairs to an entirely separate corridor. She keeps ahead of him, mumbling half-audible descriptions of the library, which he neither acknowledges nor seems to resent. She feels like a tour guide.

Finally, she steps through a door and they arrive at the old cage elevator.

Mary points to it. "We still have one of these. It's the only way to get down there. Well, not the only way, but the stairs are currently being redone."

Darcy shrugs. "I don't mind. I rather like it. Very Art Nouveau."

"Me too. I mean yes, Art Nouveau."

She unlocks the door and pulls at the crisscrossed metal railing until it slides open. They both step inside. Mary slides the railing back in place and busies herself with locking the chain. It's not that her fingers are slippery or that she's nervous; it's that she's always had a bit of trouble with the lock.

Darcy's arm suddenly comes up from behind. "May I try?"

Mary pulls out her elbow, rattling the lock, and hits him straight in the solar plexus.

The sound is appalling. It brings to mind young children snapping blocks of wood in martial arts.

Darcy staggers.

She whirls around, horrified. "Oh God, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?"

Darcy wheezes slightly, hand on chest, quite literally breathless.

"That's – a strong - hook – you have there."

"Do you need to sit down?" she asks, crestfallen. "Should I fetch some water?"

Darcy coughs and it's mixed with laughter, which takes her aback.

He exhales. "You're not _that_ good."

Mary moves her hands aimlessly. "I'm so sorry. I'm not a violent person, I swear."

"I didn't think you were," he says, looking at her archly, but she recognizes a bit of humor there. "May I try the lock _now_?"

She smiles sheepishly and steps back, leaning against the railing and resisting the urge to put her head in her hands.

Darcy manages to lock the chain in no time. He presses the levers and the old elevator comes to life, rattling in a dignified fashion, slowly sinking in the bowels of the basement.

Darcy stands opposite her, arms folded, looking a little red from the excitement.

"I believe the last time I was hit like that was boarding school."

Mary absorbs the tidbit. She ducks her head. "Kids can be cruel."

"Oh, I hit back. We all did. Getting a beating is not the cruelest thing, by far." There's still something of a smile on his lips, but he realizes he may have said too much, and his face closes in on itself, becoming anonymous, the way she's seen people on the elevator do.

Mary thinks about the strange event of standing in this cage elevator with him.

She doesn't want him to feel bad, so she offers something in return. "I wanted to go to boarding school when I was little but we couldn't afford it and my parents thought it was too posh anyway. They thought I'd get _ideas_."

Darcy unfolds his arms an inch. He shrugs. "They were right. You _do_ get ideas."

Mary smiles, looking at her feet.

They go down in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: thank you for your lovely reviews and support! the awkward adventures continue!_

* * *

**4/8**

Odd as it may sound, Mary loves the feeling of dust tickling her nostrils. She breathes it in quite happily. She is used to these musty smells. But she can hear Darcy sneezing in the background.

"Sorry, there isn't much ventilation down here."

"You don't say."

Mary ducks behind one of the tilted rows crammed with almost blackened book spines. Even the recently installed fluorescent lights look ancient and cobwebbed, as if they were part of a late Victorian steampunk craze.

She moves seamlessly between the shelves, showing a dexterity she sadly lacks in other spaces. She has spent many hours down here, mapping the maze with ease.

"Don't come any further or you'll get dust everywhere," she calls over her shoulder. She notes the sprinkling of said dust on her sweater like powdered sugar on cake.

But when she rounds the next row of books she walks straight into his chest.

Darcy automatically takes hold of her arms. "Sorry, I wanted to make sure–"

"No, I should have looked –"

"I didn't hear you when you said –"

"I should have spoken louder –"

"It's _quite_ all right."

"Yes, well – um, okay," she trails off, standing in front of him.

Mary wonders why they seem to be prone to so many accidents. Darcy's hands brush down her arms as they let her go.

"You're right, there's quite a bit of dust on you already," he remarks.

Mary rubs her nose. "I don't mind it."

"What about asthma?"

"Oh, my lungs are fine," she says, knowing no such thing.

They stare at each other.

Then Darcy sneezes again.

Mary steps back. "Oh, it's my fault."

"Quite all right." He takes out what looks like a monogrammed handkerchief.

"That's very nice. I wish I had something monogrammed."

"Well…you can. There are services for that, you know. I can recommend a good seamstress."

"Oh, thank you."

Mary thinks that this _must_ be their most awkward conversation yet.

"Wait here," she says, desperate to do something. "I will find you the Lambton books."

Darcy nods.

Mary darts away before he can add anything else.

She is good at losing herself between the stacks.

* * *

When she returns with her arms laden with calf-bound volumes and yellowed records she finds Darcy sitting in a rickety chair, pouring over an old almanac about seasonal grouse hunting in East Anglia.

She clears her throat.

Darcy looks up and quickly rises. "Let me help you with that."

"Oh, I wasn't – well, thank you."

Once she has spread the books and records on the table, she opens them to the markings she had made.

They bend over the table next to each other as Mary points out the names with her finger.

"Here are some volumes published under the Lambton House, Inc. Most of them concern agrarian history, although there is also this fascinating dissertation on Virgil's Eclogues in connection with the policy of enclosure that sealed off land from the peasants in the 13th century. I think there might be more scholastic volumes like that, but you'd have to consult the inventories of other libraries in the county."

Darcy nods thoughtfully, picking up the volume gingerly.

"You've read this one?"

"I've read parts of it, but there's real value in it. And here are a few registries that I picked out where I found records of Lambton's first licensing as a publishing house. I also found a few more mentions regarding a sale of books and the purchase of a baronet's personal library. I might be able to get the details of that purchase if I do a bit more digging."

Darcy studies the records with careful consideration.

He looks at her. "You did a very thorough job."

"Well, it _is_ my job."

"You're good at it."

"Thank you."

They almost touch elbows. Darcy looks down at her. She wonders why he is looking so intently.

"You've got a smudge of dirt –"

Mary lifts her hand. "Where?"

"Here." His thumb brushes the corner of her cheek for a brief moment. He lowers his hand.

Mary rubs the spot.

"Let me give you my handkerchief –"

"No, no, I'm fine." She lifts a corner of her sweater and wipes the dust away.

Darcy considers her for a moment. "Shall we sit down for a bit, so I can look over the books?"

"Yes, certainly," she mumbles, moving away from him. She takes up a chair at one end of the table.

Darcy sits down.

She is not surprised to find that he is a meticulous person who likes to take his time with reading material, but she _is_ surprised at how quickly he becomes absorbed in the books. His expression becomes closed-off and intensely private, focused solely on his task. Mary recognizes that face because she has often been charged with it herself. She picks up one of the volumes and decides to do the same.

She hardly notices the time passing. When Darcy finally speaks, she almost jumps, looking up from the book.

"Well, this has been very edifying. I have made some very useful notes," he tells her, pointing to a neat black notebook she had not seen before. He must have taken it out of his briefcase.

"I'm glad."

"May I take a few photos with my phone? I know the light can damage old books."

Mary feels oddly touched that he cares enough to ask. She nods.

"I'm sorry I took up so much of your time," he says afterwards, checking his watch.

"You did not. And it hasn't been that long."

"It's been more than sixty minutes," he remarks.

She blinks. "Has it? Well, I have spent much more time than that down here."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose the quiet is inviting."

"Yes."

His tone turns brisk, all of a sudden. "So, how about lunch?"

"Sorry?"

"Well, it's almost one o'clock. Would this be a good time for lunch? Or do you take your break later?"

Mary frowns. Why is he asking her about lunch?

"They do give you a lunch break, don't they?" he asks a tad more severely, as if ready to have words with management.

"Oh yes. I have an hour."

"Good. I saw a small bistro down the street that looked feasible."

Mary is still trying to catch up. He – he wants to have lunch with her?

"The bistro – that's St. Martin's," she mumbles. "I go there a lot because it's close."

"Yes, that makes sense. Well, I'm glad it's already got your stamp of approval."

"Sorry, why do you want to have lunch?"

Darcy frowns. "Well, I'm hungry, and I assume you are too."

"I meant – why together?"

His frown deepens. "It's the least I could do after you went to so much trouble on my behalf."

"It really wasn't that much trouble, you don't need to –"

"Please, I insist. Unless you have other plans and I am intruding."

Mary wishes she had the ability to lie on the spot and do it convincingly.

"No, I don't have other plans," she confesses.

"Well, then, shall we?"

* * *

Why on Earth is she sharing a meal with Darcy again? Why is it she couldn't say no? Because it was the polite thing to do? Because she balks before his formidable authority?

He wasn't that intimidating when they were reading together, but now, sitting across from her at a small table in the window corner of St. Martin's, his presence is reasserted.

Mary busies herself with the menu, even though she knows the items by heart. She needs a screen from his scrutiny, however. Whenever their knees almost brush under the table she quickly moves her legs away.

"Would you recommend the roast?" he asks, perusing his own menu.

"Yes, it's pretty good."

"What are you having?"

"Oh, I'll go with the chicken salad. And the berry tart."

"I've never had that," he mentions, as if it were worthy of very serious consideration.

"You should try one. They're not very sweet, if you're concerned about that."

"I'm not."

"Okay then."

Mary sneaks a glance at him. On the one hand, she recognizes that they are both pretty awkward individuals. On the other hand, she feels that he wears it better. Men generally do.

The elderly waitress stops by and greets Mary as one of the regulars. She smiles broadly, eyes lingering on Darcy. "And what will your friend have?"

Mary feels odd ordering for him, but she manages to pull it off without a hitch. She even orders two tarts for dessert. She gets the feeling, however, that Dorothy, the waitress, thinks she's on a date. The feeling is only intensified when Dorothy comes back with a candle, even though it's barely noon.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some wine?" she asks Mary who specifically ordered water.

"Water is just fine, thank you, Dorothy."

Mary stares at the small rosy candle and wonders if it would be impolite to snuff it out.

"It's a real fire hazard in a small place like this," she says, for something to say.

Darcy examines the candle, but seems to have nothing to add.

"Ah, Georgiana wanted me to give you this," he recalls, reaching for his suitcase.

He extends to her a small blue envelope, but before he can shut the briefcase, Mary catches sight of the hefty bulge of a paperback.

"Is that – you're reading _My Struggle_?" she can't help but ask.

Darcy looks slightly flustered, which, to be fair, is not all that different from his general aura of discomfort.

"I – yes. I am."

"That's funny. Do you remember that librarians' conference at the hotel? I'd just come out of a panel on Knausgard when we ran into each other."

"Well – actually, that's why I started reading it," he says, picking up his glass of water and then putting it down. "Your description made me curious."

"Really?"

"Yes. Things like that tend to stick in my mind."

Mary doesn't know how to react, exactly. She can't remember the last time anyone read a book on her recommendation. Not even her recommendation, really. Just a casual mention.

She can't help feeling gratified.

She leans forward. "How are you liking it so far?"

Darcy clears his throat and casts a nervous glance out the window. "Um, it's certainly well-written. I can recognize its literary value, but there's something rather unwieldy about it…"

Mary smiles a small smile. This is her domain. She feels more confident here.

"It's rather bloated and full of itself, isn't it?"

Darcy's eyes flash back to hers. "_Exactly_. I'm relieved to hear you say that. I was afraid you'd tell me I just did not get it."

"I would never tell you that. That's one of the problems with autofiction. There's a lot to like, but there's not much restraint when you are the canvas, you know?"

He nods. "I can see why you said he's meant to be quietly read, but not admired."

Mary hopes she isn't blushing. He actually remembered what she said. That rarely happens, doesn't it?

And perhaps because her guard is down, she allows herself to talk further about autofiction. She allows herself to speak, even though she sometimes fears her opinions sound like boring sermons.

But Darcy doesn't look bored. He listens and nods and gives his personal appraisal and seems engaged enough in the debate.

It's only when their food is served that Mary remembers this isn't a lecture hall.

She grows silent once more. "Sorry, I – I didn't mean to talk your ear off."

"Nonsense. I'm sure my ear can survive," he replies with the hint of a smile.

Was that a joke?

She ducks her head and picks up the fork.

After a few companionable bites in silence, Darcy nudges his chin towards the table.

"I wonder what my sister sent you in that envelope."

"Oh! I'd nearly forgotten!"

Mary picks up the blue envelope and opens it. Inside, there are two Polaroids.

Mary is a little startled. The photos feel like vestiges of a different, distant time. There's a note from Georgiana.

_We'll have to meet in person soon, so we can retake these shots!_

Darcy is staring at her.

"May I see?"

Mary wordlessly passes them to him.

His eyes become a shade bluer when they stare at the photos.

Mary and Georgiana are holding each other by the waist before the lily pond at the old family house in Derbyshire. They're both grinning, caught in a moment of suspended bliss and inattention. Mary's dark hair covers half her face, but her smile shines through.

"Who took the photos?" he asks quietly.

"Um, Lizzy did."

"Ah."

They don't say anything for a few moments.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

"And how is your sister?"

_Your sister._

Mary shifts in her seat. "She's all right, keeping busy in London. She's started working at a new ad agency."

"Yes, she sent Bingley an email about it and he forwarded it to me."

_Ouch_, she thinks.

"Yes, she's very busy," Mary punctuates, as if to salvage both their prides.

Darcy still hasn't returned the Polaroids. He looks down at them.

"You have a nice smile." His remark sounds neutral, polite.

She shakes her head. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe on good days."

"Well…we always look our best when we are happy," he says reluctantly, as if wishing to be done with the topic.

_But you brought it up_, she thinks.

He passes the photos back to her.

"I suppose – Georgiana asked you to visit?"

Mary blinks. "Oh, no, not – Pemberley. She just wants us to meet up when I'm next in London. That's all."

She stuffs the incriminating note deep in her purse.

He nods pensively. "Well, you _could_ visit. No one would mind. I'm hardly ever there, anyway."

Mary chews on her lower lip. That's probably his very polite way of telling her to bugger off, or perhaps, _because_ he's Darcy and he's always ill at ease, this is a genuine invitation. She wouldn't do a much better job of it, would she?

"Thank you."

The lunch ends with a few more remarks about Georgiana and the berry tarts which Darcy thankfully seems to approve of.

He won't hear of her paying her share, of course, because he claims that he owes her for today.

Afterwards, he walks her back to the library.

Mary awkwardly drifts next to him.

"Well, this was a nice outing," she says when they reach the entrance. As with most things she has let loose in a bid for spontaneity, this one becomes an instant regret.

_Nice outing? Did you take Nana to the park?_

His expression is oddly serene. "It was."

"Well, except for when I hit you in the chest in the lift."

Darcy barks out a laugh. It startles her. Almost like hearing gunshot. But - pleasant gunshot? No, that's not a thing.

"That wasn't so bad," he decides.

Mary covers her elbow, as if afraid she'll accidentally hit him again.

"You'll keep me posted about your Lambton ventures, won't you?" she says, falling back on her professionalism.

Darcy frowns. "Of course. I will probably need more information. I would greatly appreciate your help going forward, in fact."

Mary stumbles. "Oh, I…sure. If I can be of any assistance."

Darcy smiles. "And I will let you know if I ever finish _My Struggle_."

Mary smiles in return. "A struggle, indeed."

"Yes."

Well, now they are at that point in the conversation where they have said their goodbyes but don't know exactly how to part. Their shared ineptness prolongs the moment painfully.

Finally, Darcy steps forward and places a hand on her shoulder awkwardly.

"Goodbye, Mary. Keep in touch."

"Yes, goodbye. You too. Keep in touch. Um, bye."

She watches him walk away stiffly.

She touches her shoulder, smoothing the fabric. Then she touches her cheek. She wonders if she still has that smudge, or if she managed to clean it.

She doesn't know why she's feeling nervous _now_.

Shouldn't she be relieved it's over?

But as she walks back into the library, she can't help feeling a strange, ticklish current of electricity with every step she takes.

Moira stalks her path immediately.

"Okay, who _was_ that? And where did he take you to lunch? And when are you seeing him again?"


End file.
